


Not Alone Anymore

by eastern_westward_home (orphan_account)



Series: Alfred & Matthew [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: America Is A Good Big Brother, Angst with a Happy Ending, Cutting, Dark, Depression, Dialogue Heavy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, For a Friend, Heavy Angst, Self-Harm, this is a gift fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:00:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/eastern_westward_home
Summary: Alfred comforts Matthew after finding him self-harming one night.This is rated 'M' for a reason!Don't like, please don't read!Please READ THE TAGS!!!
Relationships: America & Canada (Hetalia)
Series: Alfred & Matthew [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1882396
Kudos: 31





	Not Alone Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> This is for one of my closest friends - Feli: if you're reading this, know that you will always have a place in my heart :3

A/N Kumajirou is a dog. Just sayin’

Matthew was alone.

Just himself and the silence. 

Lonely, longing silence. 

He had moved into a single apartment, what was that, two, maybe three months ago? But that did not matter. Alfred, his older brother, was out in some bar with his friends, and had not taken Matthew with him. Not that Matthew would have wanted to go - his brother’s friends were loud and rambunctious, and drank lots. Sometimes they were pushy and it made Matthew uncomfortable, but most often, they would just act as if Matthew did not even exist.

The only person that noticed Matthew was Gilbert, the albino Prussian, but he had opted to go to the bar as well. That left Matthew alone with his traitorous thoughts, and that awful, godforsaken silence. 

He sighed and fell back against the plush cushions on his bed. 

_If only Kumajirou was still here,_ he thought. Kumajirou had died the year before, leaving a raw, gaping whole in Matthew’s heart. 

He was used to feeling invisible, but it still pained him. His mind often used that as a weapon, lashing words - no, _lies_ \- at him, and Matthew did nothing to stop it. He _could not_ stop it, even if he tried. The lies that crept from the dark abyss in his mind were slowly poisoning him, but he could do nothing.

Matthew bit back a sob, and curled up on his side, wrapping his arms around his jean-clad knees. 

_Worthless,_ his mind whispered to him. _No one likes you. No one wants you. No one cares._

Even though Matthew hated his inner voice, he listened to it, because no one else ever talked to him, except maybe Gilbert and Alfred, but that was a rare occurrence nowadays. 

His mind, as if sensing his weakness, began to hurl words at him. 

_Dumb. Worthless. Invisible. Unimportant._

_Stop it!_ Matthew thought back, squeezing his eyes shut. 

_Unloved. Uncared for. You should just_ give up.

 _No that’s a lie-_ Matthew tried to say, but he couldn’t. The words jammed up in his throat, choking him.

 _Kill yourself. Hurt yourself. Do it._ Do it. _No one cares._

 _You’re right…_ Matthew realised, and, wiping his nose on his sleeve and pushing his glasses up his nose, he slid off his bed and padded into the kitchen.

…

“ _Whooo!_ ” someone screamed over the music.

Alfred tried to block out the noise. He was in a bar, with a beer in one hand, Ivan’s hand in the other.

Even though he _should_ have been happy, he wasn’t. Something felt off. Something about Matthew.

“Ivan,” he shouted. 

“Yes?” Ivan shouted back.

“I’m worried about Matthew.”

“Don’t be! I’m sure he’s fine,” said Ivan.

 _I don’t think so,_ Alfred wanted to say, but he didn’t.

“C’mon,” said Ivan, pulling Alfred to his feet. “Let’s dance!”

…

The knife gleamed silver in the darkness of the bathroom.

Matthew had locked himself in, even though he knew no one would be coming home until the early hours of the morning.

Slowly, he pulled off his red-and-white crop-top hoody. [He had no shirt on underneath.]

 _Yes,_ his mind whispered. _Do it._

He lifted the knife to the pale flesh of his wrist, moved it back to the crook of his arm.

His breath caught in his throat.

_Do it._

…

“No,” Alfred said, after a dance. “Something’s wrong.”

Ivan, Francis, Gilbert and Lovino looked at him curiously. [Everyone else was still dancing.]

“Well,” said Gilbert slowly. “If you really think something’s wrong, you should go check on him.”

…

The blood did not come easily, which surprised Matthew. The pain was sharp and it helped focus his mind, though, so he pressed the knife deeper into his arm. This time, when he slid the blade across his skin and into his flesh, the blood bubbled up, dark and menacing, slipping down his arm, onto his lap. 

_Again,_ whispered his mind. _Again. Do it. Cut it._

He did.

…

Alfred drove to the apartment alone, white-knuckling the wheel and surpassing all the speed limits.

He screeched into the parking lot, leapt out, raced up the steps to the front door.

 _The key! Where’s the damn key?_ he thought, combing through all the keys on his keychain until he found the right one.

Unlocking the door, he noticed that his hand was trembling.

“Matthew? I’m home!” he called.

…

_Fruck!_ thought Matthew, sitting on the ground of the bathroom. _What do I do?_

He sat silently, wishing with all his heart that his brother had just done what he was supposed to: stay at the bar, get drunk, go with Ivan to his house to watch football games. 

_Why does Alfred have to remember me_ now? he thought. 

…

Alfred checked Matthew’s bedroom first. He saw nothing out of the ordinary at first, but then he noticed Matthew’s notebook/diary lying open on his bed.

Curiosity piqued, he crept forward and picked it up. Written on the first page were two poems, hastily scrawled in Matthew’s familiar handwriting, ink smudged with tears.

The first poem went like this:

_Sometimes I truly wonder_

_If anyone out there_

_Would notice if I ceased to be_

_And if they’d even care._

The second one read:

_If sadness is a sickness,_

_I’m very sick indeed_

_A ruined mess of illness,_

_A rotten, mouldy seed_ [here, Alfred chuckled a bit at the use of the British spelling of ‘mold.]

_If sadness is a sickness,_

_Deathly sick I’d be,_

_Staring Death right in the eye_

_And counting down from three_

Alfred looked at the other page, which had only one poem.

 _I didn’t know Mattie was a poet,_ he thought. _I also didn’t know that he felt this way…_

_Broken heart like broken home,_

_Shattered, scattered,_

_Alone I roam._

_Broken sky like broken soul,_

_A half and a half will make a whole._

_Broken bonds for_

_You and me_

_One day,_

_Some day,_

_We’ll be free_

…

Matthew dropped the knife accidentally as he was reaching for his sweater. It fell to the ground with a loud, metallic clang. 

_Fruck!_ he thought, horrified. _Alfred surely would have heard that._

…

Alfred heard the clang, and was on his feet in an instant.

 _Mattie,_ he thought. 

As there was only one room in the apartment with a proper lock, he knew exactly where Matthew would be.

He raced to the bathroom and tried the door.

It was locked.

A rising sense of panic swept over him.

“MATTIE! MATTHEW! OPEN THE DOOR!” he screamed, slamming himself against the door.

He heard a choked sob from inside the bathroom.

“LET ME IN!” Alfred bellowed, retreating and then running full-speed at the door. The door didn’t stand a chance. It crashed open, and Alfred flicked on the light.

…

“I’m sorry,” whispered Matthew miserably, tears running freely down his face and onto his sweater.

There was blood _everywhere._ On the tile floor. On Matthew’s hoodie. In his hair. [ _How did it get there?_ thought Alfred.] Smudged against his cheek. All over his hands. Soaking through his jeans.

Then he saw the knife. It was lying not too far from where Matthew sat cross-legged. It, too, was covered in blood. 

_How is there so much blood?_ thought Alfred. _Like, bro-_

“Don’t be sorry,” said Alfred fiercely, stepping forward and kneeling down beside his shaking brother.

He reached around Matthew and grabbed the knife, hurled it as far away down the hallway as he could.

“Matthew,” he said. “Why?”

Matthew’s violet eyes flicked up to meet his. 

“I don’t know,” he said miserably. “I don’t know.”

“Are you-” Alfred stopped as realisation smacked him in the face. “Are you… suicidal?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered.

“How do you not know?” Alfred snapped irritably, immediately regretting it as Matthew flinched. 

“I’m sorry,” mumbled Matthew. 

Alfred noticed Matthew digging his nails into his hands, and pried his hands apart. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Alfred started.

“No! It’s not!” shouted Matthew. His outburst surprised the both of them.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

“Matthew,” murmured Alfred, sinking into a cross-legged position and hoisting Matthew onto his lap the way that he did when they were younger. He began to rock back and forth gently.

“Matthew. Where did you cut yourself?” he asked.

“A-arm,” replied Matthew. 

Alfred’s heart sank. _No wonder there was so much blood._

“Here,” he said, sliding out from underneath Matthew and standing. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

…

Once Alfred had washed Matthew’s cuts [which were thankfully not super deep], and bandaged them with some gauze that he had in their first-aid box, they sat down on the couch together, Alfred’s arm slung over Matthew’s shoulder, holding him close.

“You don’t want to suicide,” he said finally, after a lengthy silence.

Matthew looked away. “But- but no one cares about me-”

Alfred paused. “I care about you. So does Gilbert.”

“Well,” amended Matthew, “only you and Gilbert.”

“Yes,” said Alfred. “And you _won’t_ suicide because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to call me an idiot after drinking vanilla extract to get drunk.”

Matthew laughed a bit at that, shaking his head as he recalled that event. 

“You _were_ acting like an idiot,” he said fondly.

“And you _won’t_ suicide because you’d miss out on the Canucks’ next hockey game, Tim Hortons’ Creamy Chills, walks in the woods, drinking maple syrup out of the bottle, eating pancakes, eating poutine, swimming and playing hockey,” said Alfred, counting them on his fingers.

Matthew smiled and snuggled closer to his brother. 

“Don’t forget playing in the snow,” he said.

“And playing in the snow,” repeated Alfred.

“I’m sorry,” Matthew said, “that I ruined your night out.”

“Ruined?” Alfred laughed. “You didn’t ruin my night out.”

“Really?” asked Matthew. “But-”

“Bro, I got to play hero!” Alfred said, chortling. 

Matthew turned and hugged his brother, burying his face in Alfred’s hoody.

“I love you platonically,” mumbled Matthew, his words slightly muffled by the hoody.

Alfred smiled and hugged Matthew back. “Love you too, little bro.”

~the end~

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Also, I am not trying to glamorise self-harm. If you are depressed/suicidal/self-harming, you should seek help - or, at least, talk with someone you trust. I am no therapist, but talking helped me, it might help you.


End file.
